


Aftermath (Same Old Mug)

by NixVicious



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Mentions of Sterek, Stydia, post sterek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-11
Updated: 2013-09-11
Packaged: 2017-12-26 07:57:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/963495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NixVicious/pseuds/NixVicious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one knows just how hard it is to make it through the aftermath unscathed. Every day is a new day but some wounds stay just beneath the surface refusing to heal. Sometimes it takes more than what he has left in him to keep them closed. Sometimes all that he has left is what she needs to heal her own. They're both more than a bit broken but there's a solace they can find only in each other and bit by bit, piece by piece, they slowly mend together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aftermath (Same Old Mug)

**Author's Note:**

> So i thought of this while listening to Lifehouse's Almeria album and Imagine Dragon's Night Visions album. This is post Sterek and post S3A. Derek leaves Beacon Hills and Stiles. Eventually Stiles and Lydia find solace together: in each other. "Aftermath" by Lifehouse heavily influenced this although I didn't reference it in the fic. The Stydia kiss sparked my muse and this was the result.

Lydia leans against the counter dividing the kitchen and living room and watches Stiles. His back is to her as he washes carrots in the sink rather vigorously before moving to the chopping board where he begins slicing them up into half inch thick pieces for the Thai stir fry they're having tonight. Four years ago she would never in her wildest dreams have ever pictured the two of them being here right now. She wouldn't change it though. As different as they are, and have always been, they're also so complementary to each other as well that sometimes she wonders why it took her so long to see that. Why they had to go through all the things they did before she finally decided to let him in. Before she let go just enough for him to fill in the cracks that she'd been trying to seal herself without Jackson, without the parts of her that Peter had taken, the parts of her that she was still trying to understand (the banshee thing is a work in progress). He keeps her grounded like no one else can, just like she does for him.

Rolling Off The Stone fills the open floor plan and she lets the relaxing tones of Jason Wade's voice wash over her. She bought that iPod entertainment system for Stiles' last birthday. Used her Lydia Martin powers to get it the exact shade of blue as The Jeep and engraved his mom's name on it in Sanskrit, his dad's in Kanji. He cried for five minutes, kissed her for another ten, and then they had sex on the living room floor for the next five hours. It took two days before she could walk in her Jimmy Choo's again, without her legs shaking.

Stiles starts singing:

"Life is taking its toll, spinning out of control, so what you want from me? Yeah what you want from me?"

It's absently done because his focus is on the Chili Chicken he's prepping now but the words strike a chord with her. They always have, ever since the first time she heard the song, and it's a favorite of hers still. It reminds her of all the things they've survived though neither of them have come out unscathed. He still has nightmares sometimes and all she can do is hold him until the worst of it has passed and he's no longer screaming, just shaking. When he finally calms they'll curl up together with his head buried in the crook of her neck while her fingers comb through his hair, the familiar soothing motions easing him back into sleep eventually. 

Stiles moves with such precise finesse in the kitchen. It never ceases to amaze her. Here he is sure and steady. His hands never waver while he wields the always sharpened kitchen knives. She cut herself once so she can attest to just how sharp they are. He pauses to pour himself a glass of wine and Lydia appreciates the slender beauty of his fingers as he handles the wineglass. The same fingers that rub her neck and shoulders and erase the phantoms that still linger about and try to drag her under when the days are their darkest and she can't see the sun anymore. The same hands that hold her in turn when her nightmares take over and she's the one screaming her throat dry. She's reminded of the strength he shows for the both of them when she has none left. Just as she does for him.

Imagine Dragons' Round and Round is on now. Lydia supposes it's only natural that their music is so intrinsically linked to their lives. She hasn't run away yet despite the fact that sometimes she thinks it's the only way to save herself. If she leaves maybe none of it will follow her. Maybe she'd be able to live a different life. But then she'd be without purpose, without Stiles, and as strong as she is she's stronger with him. He gives her balance, something real to focus on amidst the madness surrounding them.

Bleeding Out is next on the playlist. She knows because she helped Stiles make it. It's sort of their song if she's honest considering they've both literally bled for each other and for a bunch of other reasons that she's not going to think about right now because dinner. But it's like the anthem of their lives and whenever they listen to it she remembers. She remembers how far they've come, how she almost lost him, how she nearly went completely insane after the Darach Massacre, and all the things between that blur so badly now it's almost like they never happened. And how something so normal like watching Stiles make dinner is so vital to this delicate balance they've found. Everyday she does everything in her power to keep it that way. She won't let him feel empty again, she won't let him fall to pieces again, she won't let him bleed again. No matter what it takes.

And then there are are some wounds she will never be able to heal, some cuts that run too deep for her to close. He's digging through the spice rack when she sees it. Derek's old coffee mug. She thought Stiles got rid of it. Or at least so he'd said the day after Derek left. Stiles' shoulders tense and his hand freezes over the plastic bottle of chili flakes as his eyes fall on it.

Derek is Stiles' open wound. The one thing tattooed so deeply under Stiles' skin that nothing will ever be able to remove the memory from him. If there was ever a person Lydia hates it's Derek. She hates what his absence has done and continues to do to Stiles. It isn't like her hatred for Peter. This is something completely different, and while she's never felt like she's been living in the wake of Derek's shadow on Stiles' heart she's powerless in the face of the hurt it still causes him and that is unforgivable. Unacceptable.

Stiles just lingers there, unmoving, hand suspended in the air still. She can tell he isn't even breathing by the way he's holding himself so rigid right now. A beat later he exhales deeply, wearily, and it cuts her to the bone. He makes an aborted jerk of his hand as if reaching for it but stops just short of touching it and curls his fingers back into the palm of his hand which then falls back to his side. The spice rack now forgotten Stiles runs a hand over his face, then through his hair, takes two deep breaths and turns to face her.

Lydia waits. She doesn't say anything, doesn't school her features into an impassive, unreadable mask like she used back when she thought she needed to protect herself from Stiles too. The inability to decipher her emotions used to drive him crazy because it made him uncertain, unsure and he didn't want that for them. She worked hard to lower her walls for him. Just like how he worked hard to always tell her the truth instead of keeping her in the dark. She already had too many demons to fight without him throwing in a few of his own. Old habits die hard though and she still has to tamp down hard on the reflex to hide her reaction.

It still smells like Derek. You don't have to be a wolf to know that. It was the only thing he ever drank from. Every morning like clockwork, coffee steaming hot, black, no milk, no sugar. The one time Isaac gave it to him in a teacup Derek stared at it in silence until Stiles cuffed him upside the back of the head before pouring it into the black mug, which Derek then drank from immediately like nothing at all was amiss. Morning coffee was their thing. That's why mornings are still Stiles'. She gives him enough time alone before she comes down to use the Keurig. She doesn't think about how many times he must have come down here and been alone with that mug and his thoughts. How many times he would have taken it out, put it down on the counter next to his own mug and just stared.

As much as it is his strength Stiles' heart is also his weakness. Once you're in there it's hard to get out. It was always Derek and Stiles until it just wasn't anymore. Until Derek decided to disappear one day without so much as a word, not a trace of him to be found anywhere. Until a day turned into days and days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months. And oh god the pain in her chest is so strong she has to grip the counter to center herself. Stiles began to disappear bit by bit until she realised the boy that she knew would be completely gone if they didn't do something. In the end it was Peter (why is it always him) who helped her save Stiles from drowning, from losing himself, from leaving her alone to suffocate.

"I still forget sometimes," Stiles says after a minute or two when he knows his voice is steady enough not to betray him, "and think I'll wake up to find him here one morning drinking from it like he'd been here all the time..." then he cuts off and drags in a shuddering breath, "I just-I couldn't get-it was all I had left of hi-I'm sorr-"

And then Lydia is there, arms around him, lips on his, absorbing the pain, taking him all in. Stiles is trembling even as he kisses her back. His fingers find purchase on her hips, gripping so tightly it feels like he's digging into her bare skin. The kiss is bruising and rough and not graceful by any means but neither of them need gentle. They both survive on tangible reminders that they are still standing, that they have each other, that they are not alone. That she will never leave him, that he loves her, that they will keep each other afloat until they drown. And if they drown they will still be holding on to the other as the water swallows them.

She cradles his face in her hands as he pulls her closer. She feels his heart pounding against her chest. Eventually his breathing evens out again but he doesn't pull away. They stand there, still entwined, in the middle of the kitchen, her back against the island. She holds on to his shirt and breathes him in while he just holds her. Stiles has always been the tactile type. The contact grounds him. Truth be told it's the same for her as well. He sighs against her lips, breath puffing against the skin at the corner of her mouth,

"God I love you..." he murmurs, lips brushing over hers as he speaks, thumbs tracing the skin above the waistline of her skirt, "I don't deserve you, but you're still here anyways..." and he kisses her again, hard and biting like she did before and her heart shudders behind her ribs as her pulse picks up.

Lydia wraps her hands around the back of his neck, fingers clutching at his hair as Stiles lifts her up onto the island. His movements are rushed and frantic, urgent even, as he pushes her skirt up her thighs, fingers searching her out and slipping inside with practiced ease. The rush she gets is the same every time. His mouth sears her in a way that makes her toes curl and her back arch up into him. They have sex surrounded by red and yellow peppers, spices and uncooked noodles. She hitches her legs up around his waist, hooking her feet at the ankles so they don't lose the leverage as he thrusts into her heavy and wanting. Always wanting. Like there's this insatiable hunger between them that can never be quelled. A gaping emptiness that they've been trying to fill with as much of each other as they can.

It's hard and fast and punches the breath from her chest. Stiles shivers and she gasps and then they collapse, sweaty and boneless and a little less worse for wear than they were before.

"I love you," he whispers again, over the shell of her ear, with tears in his eyes and his heart on his sleeve, the painful truth of his eternal weakness on his face.

"I love you," she swears in return, holding him so that she can catch the pieces if he falls apart again.

They both have burdens to bear, some sized smaller and shaped differently than others.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed. Send me a prompt on my tumblr (nixvicious) or just come say hi :)


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